Colored Grey
by oryxcrake
Summary: Set postVoldiekilling. Things are lighter, now, but will our favorite characters be able to deal with being the young men and women they are without the anxiety of war? M for later.
1. Chapter 1

Prologue

**A/N: For all of my readers, I haven't given up on The Best Laid Plans, not by any means, but this came to me one day. In fact, all that came to me was one line, said by Draco Malfoy. This entire fan fiction was the result. It's not complete, of course, but, it will be. Truly, I hope you enjoy this. It's much lighter than The Best Laid Plans, but I'm sure my plot-bunny will insist that there be some substance in here at some point. **

It was already beginning to turn to autumn, and they had only been back in school for a week or so. The Gryffindor trio sat in the common room talking quietly. The war was over, it had been rather brief, but brutal. Possibly more brutal than the first reign of Voldemort. But no one liked to think about; that's not to say they didn't think about it, it was just that no one really wanted to think about it. Who could blame a sane person for being sane?

No one hated to think about it more than Harry Potter himself. He had had to do things no man with a conscience would have willingly done, had seen things, unflinching, that would make most grown men vomit. Harry Potter dreamed things that would normally induce insanity. However, much of it he had already been used to. Haunting images and nightmares had been a part of a daily routine for him at a very young age. Harry Potter, while having survived with many others something terrible and disturbing, had also been relieved of a pressure few of us will ever feel. He had actually, finally managed to save the world. Of course, not single-handedly as some people seemed to want to think.

The point, of course, was that Harry was so relieved of this pressure, he felt free. It was a freedom he couldn't remember ever feeling, though he was sure at one time he must have felt the same way. Now, it was easier to laugh. It was easier to smile, easier to see the beauty, easier to just be himself. And that made it a lot more bearable on a lot of people.

Hermione felt it was easier for her if continuity were the plan of action. Indeed, who expected Hermione Granger to change much at all? Her original plan seemed to have worked for her up 'till then, and when it seemed ineffective, she would then consider change. Ron, on the other hand, had found that he was more than just 'another Weasley'. The identity-less image he'd formed for himself had disappeared and he was reconciling himself with this new, bolder, slightly (just slightly) more articulate Ron with whom he had believed himself to be for years upon years.

Now, it wasn't just the trio we are all so near and dear to that fought in that terrible, horrific war. Let's take a peak in on an unsuspected (_hah! Cliché, anyone?_) do-gooder, shall we? Yes, there in the Slytherin common room, alienated and to the side sets a young man. Draco Malfoy. That young man had no choice but to accept change. His entire life, as far as he was concerned, had been a lie. He was learning how to live again and it wasn't easy. He'd lost his father in the war, struck down in a battle. He missed the image he'd always constructed for himself of a father, not so much Lucius Malfoy. His mother was handling the things well, he admitted to himself, but then again, well would be an understatement. She was elated at the freedom she had now that Lucius was out of the picture. Arranged marriages in the Wizarding world were rare, even in his parent's time, but they continued on to present if the right dowry could be had.

Our little dragon was curled up like a big cat in an overstuffed dark green armchair, rewriting some notes. He tended to have difficulty reading his own writing if he wasn't careful. Sloppy wasn't the problem, it was that his brain worked too quickly for his hand to catch up and what came out was different language of short hand that sometimes even _he_ couldn't decipher. It also helped that no one ever asked to borrow his notes more than once. However, his notes weren't on his mind tonight. Oh, no. They were actually quite far from his thoughts. In fact, tonight, he was thinking over the last battle he'd been conscious for. He'd fought, literally, back-to-back with Potter. He had fired shots on death eaters who had attended his birth. He had defended Potter, and Potter had defended him. All the enmity between them dissolved in mutual desperation for freedom, the ultimate reason for the war.

Although, Harry Potter wasn't quite the center of his thoughts, if he'd dig just a little deeper. Ronald Weasley stood to their left. He had covered them, shooting around the perimeter. The Weasel that he'd tormented for many reasons, (one of them being jealousy, though he'd never admit it, not voluntarily at least) had aided him, had in fact fought fist-to-fist with a Death Eater when his wand had snapped. But still, we are not quite to the thought that was distracting him so this particular night.

He loathed to think about her. He felt dirty, and not in the fun way, either, when she leaped across his mental vision. She had been there, determination on her face. He could still see her expression, passion in her eyes and something wild, animalistic. He had never seen her like that before, and probably never would again. She fought for him, instead of against him. That, in and of itself, was a change so mind-blowing that it had taken a second to register once he'd actually seen who was to their right in that battle. A curse had singed the top of his left ear while he was turned, trying vainly to assure himself that, yes, that was Hermione Granger.

And we've come to the center of his thoughts. It wasn't the rumors that floated about his own House that said he'd become a blood traitor. Although he had been and was damn proud of it, for his own, personal reasons. It wasn't the pain of the past that flooded his stomach with ice, although that pain rested deep in a place in his body and he doubted it would ever be assuaged. No, the trouble with him was Hermione Granger and her infuriating manner of confusing his entire world. Okay. So, she wasn't entirely to blame, but it helped Draco out. If there was just that one point of focus, he could attempt to hate her more easily.

He never managed to find hate for her anymore. Frustration, now he had plenty of that for her. Aggravation, too, was in excess. However, intrigue and a sneaking little tendril of curiosity about her worked its way in there, too. He even began wondering what _she_ thought about in her spare time. Or, he would have if he didn't distract himself purposefully whenever she crossed his mind.

No, dear readers, this last year was not meant to be dewdrops and lollipops, but what year at Hogwarts ever has been? This year, I have a feeling all of our favorite people will have a lot to deal with. However, what they're dealing with now is life. I don't envy them one bit. How are seventeen year olds supposed to pick up in the middle of their life, just knowing how to sort feelings out and deal with things on their level if they've never had time to allow life, outside of constant vigilance and life-threatening situations, to occur? These next few months for them, might be quite taxing, indeed.

Chapter 1- The Beginning

**A/N: Chapter 1 brings the line that started this entire endeavor. I hope you enjoy this. As always, please review. It's positively my reason for living. **

So, darlings, our saga begins with breakfast in the Great Hall. The noise was, as usual, climbing from a dull roar to near-deafening, though most students were quite used to this. Excitement was rampant in Hogwarts. The joy of being free was catching like the most infectious of diseases and outbreaks of pranks and dare-devil stunts cropped up almost daily between classes causing much malcontent with the caretaker everyone loves to hate, Filch. Oh, it really isn't all his fault he's as bitter as he is. You try living with a family who's so ashamed that you're a squib they don't invite you to family reunions anymore. Or… since you were 11, when the owl skipped you for your older, more attractive brother. And you try going to your brother's wedding while not only being skipped of the prestigious duty of best-man, but be thrown out because you didn't have an invitation. (Hearing those things, don't you feel just a little bit guilty about all those nasty things you think about him?)

So, as I was saying, most students were used to this. Hermione Granger was no exception to being used to loud noises (she did manage to study while Harry and Ron played Exploding Snape right next to her), but she also had little impatience for those who didn't take learning quite as seriously as she did. Which was pretty much everyone this morning. Already, she was preparing for graduation tests, which were several months away. Seventh year, everyone said, was merely a reminder year. Hermione Louis Granger did not believe that for a moment, especially with the classes _she_ was taking. No, she hadn't made the mistake of actually needing another Time-Turner again for the amount of classes. Instead, she opted for difficulty. So, when the cajoling of Harry and Ron to join in on their reindeer games finally got to her, she stood up, said a harried, "See you later," and all but sprinted to the library.

Draco Malfoy had been in a bad temper since the beginning of school. Okay, so, he wasn't Head Boy, even though he'd sacrificed a lot for Dumbledore. He could handle that. Okay, so his House mates turned on him, he could handle that. What he couldn't handle was that he was actually becoming friends with a Ravenclaw. Alright, so friends might be a little bit of a stretch just yet. At least there was no animosity between them, and Terry Boot happened to be almost as good at Potions as he, himself was. Almost. Currently, they'd skipped breakfast to head to the library to settle a debate about a particular potion and it's after effects. He was silently comforting himself with the fact that Terry was neither a Hufflepuff nor a Gryffindor, and so, he was acceptable.

Hermione muttered to herself as she scaled the stairwell to the library, "Boys. They've never understood.. Bah." She had always chalked it up to being preoccupied with other, and at the time, more important things. Now, she didn't understand why they didn't want to take full advantage of the education that was provided for them. Harry, well, he was doing his best, but it seemed like everything lately was funny to him. Ron, on the other hand, was more obsessed than usual with Quidditch, which was another irritating thing. She, on the other hand, was feeling a little lonely, a little dark. No one had really talked about the war, of course. Hermione, however, had felt that she wanted to say something, get something out, but she didn't know what to say or to whom. So, school work was the back up plan.

The library was always empty this early in the morning. It was like a sanctuary from the world outside, her own little cave of solitude. So, why did she hear muffled voices in the back? She almost screamed. Sometimes, she just wanted to be _away_ from everyone. Didn't everyone have those days when people in general irritated the hell out of them? She resolved to sit in her normal seat and reread a book she had on her. It was fiction, actually, and pure leisure. She needed a chance to relax, too, after all.

Her seat felt odd to her today, but she ignored it, finding the nail marks she made out of boredom one day. It was indeed her chair. Her thumb moved over the familiar indentations, picking the book up in the middle where a favorite part of hers was about to happen. It was suspenseful, a heroine climbing down dank, damp cement stairs into a dungeon, eyes fixated on the spark of light at the bottom, her life in danger. She could feel her heart rate elevate, remembering adrenaline from times before. Hermione leaned forward, forgetting the world around her, becoming the heroine in the story. Just as her feet touched the slick bottom of the dungeon, her fingers clasping around a necromancer's bell, a voice whispered in her ear, "You're in my chair."

She bit back a scream, jumped and nearly took out the person behind her. She stood, scrambling for some semblance of grace under fire. It was no where to be found, of course. Today was going to be marvelous. Who should be standing next to her, a self-satisfied smirk plastered all over his face, but Draco Malfoy.

Of course, dear readers, he would have to be looking self-satisfied. He'd known that Hermione Granger escaped within books as he escaped within lucid dreaming. It was her chance to be anyone she wanted, as it was his chance to be normal. He was now positively glowing under the scrutinizing, withering black glare that was being rained down upon him. He only smiled brighter. "What in Merlin's name are you on about? This is _my_ chair, Malfoy. I've sat here since I was eleven." Her whisper was leaden with scorn, a bad attempt at covering up the fear that had her heart beating so hard it hurt. She was a jumpy little thing these days.

_Her_ chair, Draco thought, eyebrow lifting. What a coincidence. And how convenient for my plot, eh, readers? Of course he hadn't been using that particular chair at that particular table for nearly that long, but did two years count? Of course they did, if you were Draco Malfoy. And it just so happened that it was Draco Malfoy who'd been sitting there. "Well, Granger, can't we share? You get the chair on the weekends and hols, I get it every other time." To this, she pursed her lips, sat heavily down onto the chair and stared at him.

"Leave me alone, Malfoy. I'm reading," and with that, she turned her back to him. Now, Draco couldn't have that. He never lost an argument. Terry Boot, who had been down a different stack looking for the book that would prove him right in the debate with Draco had heard a scuffle and, sighing, turned around to see what the ruckus was _now_. He'd known that in allowing himself to associate with Draco Malfoy there would be certain other things that came with it. Scuffles and fights and the like were just some of those things. Honestly, though, Terry didn't see much wrong with the guy, aside from some neurosis and bad hand dealt to him for life. Although, the enmity with the Gryffindors he'd stay completely out of. He was Switzerland, when it came to that. Let them fight it out, he thought. Not his battle.

So, when he walked over and caught the very last little bit of the 'argument' before Hermione turned her back to Draco, he rolled his eyes. Could he not go one day without tormenting the poor bird? She could be infuriating in class, but she deserved respect. Switzerland, he reminded himself. I am Switzerland. Draco turned to Terry, amusement on his face. "She says that's her chair."

Terry eyed the chair, then the table. Malfoy had sat there ever since he'd known him at all. The table had a small doodle of a snitch done in green ink with the initials D.M. in the middle. Alright, so Draco had sat there. He whispered, several feet away, "Do you honestly want me to mediate a fight over who's chair that is?"

Draco grinned wickedly and nodded. This was obviously some sick game that Terry wanted as little part in as possible. The book he needed to prove Draco wrong was in his hand, the page marked by his thumb. The quicker this was over, the quicker he was owed a Butterbeer. He took two steps and said, " Hermione, he does sit there. He's neurotic. It's just easier if you scoot over one bloody chair."

Her reading had been interrupted once again. This was not going to be a good day. She was not happy. Slowly, she took a breath, closed her eyes briefly then turned her face towards Terry. "I. Am. Not. Moving." That was that. Terry tried once more, "Come on, please? This is stupid." He paused, knowing how to appeal to the Head Girl, "Shouldn't you be more mature about this?"

He had done it. That was it. That was it! She snapped her book shut and turned, eyes bright and face hard, "Sometimes, I don't want to be mature." It was clipped and her tone said _leave me the bloody hell alone._

Terry held his hands up in retreat, shrugged to Draco and went back to the stacks. Let them work this out. He was still going to get a Butterbeer out of it.

Draco left it quiet for a moment, not saying anything, though not moving, either. Then, just as she'd relaxed a little, he leaned over, one finger tracing lazy circles on the chair's arm, "Soooo… who's in my chair…?" he said in a sing-song voice, still quiet as Madame Pince glowered momentarily from her spot behind her desk. Hermione ignored him. "Come now, up, up, up." he added brightly.

_Control yourself. Breathe. Just bloody breathe, Granger. Don't curse his ears off, you can handle this maturely. Stupid Terry Boot and his stupid logical arguments…_ A mental monologue rushed through her head as she attempted to calm herself. "I'm sitting here. Just.. Sit somewhere else, why can't you?  
Truth be told, she was neurotic, too. Patterns were what gave her a sense of normalcy. She was not going to give her chair up if she could help it.

She watched as Draco seemed to consider this with real fervor. "Alright," he chirped brightly and plopped a rather nice arse on the table right next to her book. Anything to annoy the bushy haired annoyance. And today, he felt the need for more aggravation than was usual. Hermione studiously ignored him. This plan seemed to work for a while. Until, of course, her book was ripped out of her hands just as she was about to get free of the ropes that held her prisoner. "What _are_ you reading, anyway? Good Merlin, Granger. This is _smut_." He'd flipped through a few pages and had seen a few sentences of the racy sort.

"_It is not smut!_" she whispered vehemently. "It happens to be a fictitious story- that is _all_," and indeed, it was not smut. There was a sex scene or two, though they were well written and integral to the plot. It figured Malfoy would have to see _those_ parts, wouldn't it. And he _would_ have to be delighted at it.

"_My, my, my_, Granger. Growing up, are we?" She glowered, tore the book from his hands.  
"Have your damnable seat!" she said, shaking with embarrassment and anger. She stormed out of the library, stamping so loudly that even Madame Pince, who was known to favor her, scowled in her direction with a quick, "Shh!"

That had been fun. A lot of fun. And bloody hell, what he'd seen in that book amounted to smut to him. _Throbbing member_, indeed. Draco snorted. No wonder she spent so much time reading. If he'd had books like that, he'd spend a lot of time reading, too. Terry reappeared with an expression of trepidation. "Do I really want to know?" Draco smiled gleefully. "Probably not."

"Fine," remarked Terry, pushing wire-rimmed glasses up on his nose. "And just so you know, here's where it says that dry-mouth isn't a side-effect, but increased libido _is,_" Terry pointed to the paragraph and the gleeful smile vanished off of Draco's handsome face. "_Fine_, I owe you a Butterbeer." Alright, so, Terry was getting better at potions. Under Draco's careful tutelage, of course.

The entire day had followed suit for Hermione. She glowered at everyone who so much as said 'hello' to her, muttering under her breath during classes about _boys_, and how she couldn't stand them. Ron looked over to Harry during Transfiguration class. Harry shrugged and scribbled a note to Ron that they'd talk to her that evening in the common room to see what they'd done this time. The only time they'd seen her this incensed at the entire male race was when Ron and she rowed, back in fourth year. Good Merlin, they'd obviously done something to incur her wrath this time. Both just wished they knew what it was that they'd done.

Dinner came with a surly Hermione. At one point, she looked up from squishing her mashed potatoes viciously with her fork and blurted out, "Just because there happens to be sex in a book, it doesn't mean it's smut, does it?"

"Er… Hermione.." Ron paused, obviously not knowing if this were a trick question. He looked to Harry again, who shrugged helpfully. Ron smiled, "No. It doesn't _have_ to be," he said cheerfully, hoping he'd chosen correctly.

"That's what I _said!_" Her anger was apparent as she grabbed her bag and said she was going to the common room.

"What the bloody hell is wrong with her, Harry?" Ron was confused. Very confused. However, he was used to being confused when it came to that particular girl. He'd had a crush on her for years, but she was so intense he was never sure how to go about asking her out. Sometimes, he was positive she'd say yes. Other times, like today, seemed to make him feel she'd never feel anything for him but brotherly love. It made his stomach squirm uncomfortably.

"It's Hermione, Ron. I'm sure.." he'd started to say he was sure it didn't have anything to do with Ron, but finished with, "she'll be fine by the time we reach the common room."

Draco had been watching the Gryffindor table happily. Hermione had been sullen all of that day, muttering about smut and boys. He did so love to aggravate her. She was pleasantly fiery when he had the time to think of really good insults. This morning was sheer brilliance, and straight off the cuff. Who knew they'd be thrown together in the library like that? Of course, he could have been seeking her out, the library being one of her known hang-outs. Although, it had been Boot who had wanted to prove him wrong, so he tried not to think anymore about psychology and instead, thought about what he'd do to her next.

Dinner went sluggishly. It was always sluggish now-a-days, and even though he was a so-called blood traitor, there were several girls who hadn't given up pestering him. Honestly, he had enjoyed the attention, the flirtation, even if he would never have actually deigned to touch them. Now, however, after years of the same old thing, he'd grown bored of it. There was no excitement when Pansy made a barely veiled comment alluding to some such sexual favor she would be more than willing to perform for him. There was no excitement in the giggling, vapid younger girls who cooed when he passed. He was handsome. He knew he was. He also knew he was intelligent. However, for some reason, people in his own house seemed to take that aspect of Draco Malfoy for granted. (_but we don't, do we, dear readers?_)

He made a low noise in his throat, a cross between a groan and a growl, both born of frustration, as he pushed his plate away and left the table. He shoved one hand into his hair, scowling at himself and his predicament. How had he managed to do this? How had he been so stupid as to let himself actually fond of one woman he knew he had no ability to gain. Perhaps it was the allure of the forbidden. Forbidden fruit. Indeed, that was what Hermione was.

He stalked out of the Great Hall, a laugh bubbling into a great, "Hah!" as he saw himself presenting Hermione Granger with a bouquet of flowers and a heart-shaped box of candies. This was positively absurd. Flowers and chocolates were not his style. They could be, if done the correct way, and that was not, in Draco's superior opinion, the correct way.

His footfalls on the stairs were quiet, muted and he was thankful for it. At least he was left with his own highly amusing thoughts. While he and the Golden Trio had put aside their animosity for a time and worked together, they would never be bosom buddies. There was a general truce on the insults and fist fights and also a general respect. He and Potter nodded in acknowledgement of one another in the hall ways, but never had more interaction than that, if it wasn't absolutely necessary. He and Weasley had the unspoken agreement to simply stay out of each other's way.

He and Granger, on the other hand, seemed to bicker just as much as before. In fact, more than ever before. He had nothing left to occupy his thoughts and time, aside from school work, really. And who wanted to let themselves be occupied solely by school work? Oh, Hermione Granger. However, even when they were fighting, he found it to be all in good fun. She didn't seem to see it that way. Odd, he thought it apparent.

Draco let his fingers brush over the cool metal of the suits of armor decorating the hallways he was so familiar with, wandering aimlessly. The library wasn't closed, he just simply didn't feel like going in there with nothing to do. So, wandering about seemed to be the thing. His common room was treacherous, as well. What tenuous bonds he had held with those in his house able to verbalize even remotely well had been shattered completely. Most still upheld the tradition of pureblood is automatically the equivalent of superior. He knew better. The only thing that was inherently superior was himself. In many ways, though, he admitted to himself, not in all. He had faults, but he worked desperately to hide them. It was too much like work to correct them.

**A/N: How do you like it? I randomly found it on my comp when I was completely out of DSL service. As always, read and review!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

**A/N: Alright, Chapter 2 is here. After a very, very long time. I now have a lovely 9 month old son and a second wedding to plan. But somehow, I have more time to work on my fanfics now. Weird. But, anyway, this is an easy way for me to break back into my writing. Please Review. I feel like my writing has slipped in my hiatus so if you find issues, I'd love to know. Tell me nicely? Pretty please? And I love compliments, too! Oh, oh, check out Best Laid Plans and read up, 'cause the next thing I do will be to put out another chapter on that one. –March 22, 09**

The fireplace beckoned, warm and inviting. The flames wiggled and danced, saying that they were happy Hermione had chosen come and visit them. She sighed and relaxed into a chair, stretching out her legs. She toed off her shoes, wiggled her toes and leaned her head back against the chair. Her book lay closed in her lap, her hands folded on top of it. She wanted to read, but her eyes were tired and her body was tired from carrying so much frustration around all day. Frustration weighed more than her books did, which is saying quite a lot.

All she wanted to do right now was be asleep, or at the very least away from everyone. But she couldn't really do that. Not right now, she couldn't be alone. She needed to talk to Ron and Harry for a moment, take a breather, and then head back to her common room. Ron and Harry trundled through the portrait talking quietly and with some intensity. When they caught her sitting there, waiting on them, they grew quiet with slow, uncertain smiles growing on their faces.

"Hey there, 'Mione. Er… should I ask how you are? Or why you're so mad?" Ron asked tentatively.

"I'm upset because people don't seem to understand that what I read is none of their business and that my chair is _my chair_ and that it doesn't matter what I read, anyway because they have no clue about the context…" her little tirade had started quiet and tired and grew faster and more upset as she continued. At the looks on Ron and Harry's faces, she stopped and took a slow, deep breath. "I'm sorry. I'm not mad at you at all, I'm just very, very tired. And a little stressed, is all. So, I'm going to go to my room. I'm going to take a long bath and read and since it's the weekend, I'm going to stay in my room all weekend." She paused again to rub the bridge of her nose. "I'm not mad at you." She was sure to speak softly, trying to reassure them. "I just want a little alone time right now."

Ron nodded and Harry just listened. "Alright, if you need us, we'll be here."

Hermione got up and grabbed her bag and book to walk out. She smiled, a little sadly at them, and walked toward the portrait hole. Just as she was about to step out, her hand on the portrait, Ron called out.

"Hey, 'Mione?" She looked lovely standing there, her hair all around her face. Her eyes seemed so big in her pale face. There was a little scar by her left eye that wasn't there before the war and it was already silvery. Curse scars left their mark and the war had left more than just that superficial wound on his Hermione. She was strong, had been strong since he'd known her. And now, she looked tired. Beautiful, but very, very tired. And not at all the Hermione he'd known. Suddenly, she was just a beautiful stranger standing in the portrait hole he'd looked at for six years.

"Yes, Ron?" Hermione tucked her hair behind one ear and tilted her head.

"Nothing. Get some rest, alright?" Ron felt his brows knit together as the portrait swung closed on a dream that he'd been nursing for some years now. He felt empty all the sudden. Harry's hand squeezed his shoulder briefly.

"It's alright, mate. Didn't you hear? She's not mad at you." Harry said, a bit overly-cheery. Ron thought that as great a friend as he was, he could sometimes be a little thick. Or perhaps he just didn't want to see what Ron had seen.

Ron shook his head and flopped down in the chair Hermione had just vacated. "No, Harry. She's different now." He sighed. "We all are, I guess. All a bit colored grey." (_I couldn't help but plug the title, readers! You'll have to forgive me._)

Harry understood what Ron was saying and saw that his friends had indeed changed. Colored grey, indeed. He smiled a bit, as he dug in his bag. Ron was not prone to pragmatic speech and euphemisms, but it did fit. The war had left them free, free of constant fear. But the vestiges of living with years of it had taken it's toll. "Exploding snap?"

"Of course." Ron leaned forward, and started shuffling.

The entrance to the Head's common room was hidden much like the entrance into Diagon Alley. She tapped the wall in a special succession and hummed Flight of the Bumblebee (_ten points to anyone who can tell me why it's the Flight of the __**Bumblebee**_) and the wall receded and slid into itself. She stepped into the comfortable, somewhat smaller room. It was lined with bookshelves and decorated in a house-neutral purple. There were two comfortable chairs, and two desks facing away from one another. Both were covered in papers and quills, ink pots and other studying litter. It smelled like her shampoo and leather book binding and Terry's cologne.

Terry Boot had been appointed Head Boy and she wasn't surprised. He made wonderful grades, almost as good as hers. He was quiet, didn't have a record for trouble making, and enjoyed most of his classes. He was easy to get along with. He did his studying, she did hers. They locked the bathroom door and had absolutely no mishaps. They occasionally studied together. They asked no personal questions of one another and that's how they liked it.

She listened momentarily, heard nothing but quiet and smiled for the first time that day. She drew a bath and locked the door, then disrobed and climbed in, book in hand. Thick bubbles surrounded her, and she could finally relax. Her book let her think about only the words on the page, and the steam that floated around her.

Terry came back from dinner late, also very tired. He opened the door and immediately smelled the scent that meant that Hermione was in the bath. She was nice, a little quiet, but nice. It was a lot like living with a sister, he supposed. He didn't have a sister, himself, but it's what he might imagine it to be like. If you never fought with your sister and barely talked to one another, that is. He kicked off his shoes, threw off his robe and threw it over the chair at his desk on the way to his room, where he changed into comfortable clothes that weren't school robes. When he returned to his desk, there was a butterbeer waiting on him. He had a good relationship with the house elves and it paid off. He cracked it open, leaned his chair back on two legs and took a long drink.

It was at this point that Draco decided to pay a little visit to Terry. He was bored and it had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that Hermione also lived there. None what so ever.


End file.
